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Car horns blare and engines sputter everywhere. It's a foggy Thursday night down 21st in New York City. The streets are packed with metal beasts like sardines—people leaning out of windows and laying on their horns impatiently. This very street is one that presently contains the famous Captain America. Fitted on his motorbike in a shiny grey helmet he waits atop the purring beast for the line of traffic to die down. Tonight he looks much more like Steve Rogers than his superhero alter-ego. He's impatient to get home of course, but he looks through the traffic and deems a weaving path too dangerous to find. So he resorts to leaning back in his seat and surveying the scene lazily. The sidewalks are filled with ambling pedestrians who have shopping bags slung over their shoulders and clacking shoes on their feet. The fog hides their faces but somehow they all manage to look the same. Lights of all-night smoke shops and walk-in barbers light up the way. A few trinket stores sit on either side of a deli that's right across from a sushi bar with bright green blinking neon lights that nearly blind anyone who dares to sneak a peek.
It takes only a few minutes longer for the congestion to begin to clear. Steve can see traffic slowly starting back up, almost making him smile. But then he notices that there's a greenish-grey Nissan clogging up the lane of slow-moving cars just a few vehicles ahead of him. Its left taillight is out and there's a big dent running down the side. Everyone around the car idle impatiently as it stays in one place in the same lane as Steve. It's about five cars down.
The passenger door to the Nissan suddenly opens, causing a lot of other drivers to lay on their horns. Out of the warmth and safety of the vehicle stumbles a woman wearing a long floral skirt and a thin sweater wrapped around her shoulders for warmth. She trips out onto the road, looking flush in the face and angry, before slamming the car door shut and hobbling around the front of it to make her escape. A sort of scream comes from her mouth when the driver of the car, the one she must be arguing with, moves forward in a jaunted fashion as if meaning to run her down. She then moves from the scream to cursing: slamming both of her flattened palms down onto the hood until the driver lays on his horn and she pushes away. She barely has time to make it onto the sidewalk before the Nissan speeds off—leaving her alone in the dust and fog.
Steve's quick to notice that this woman's anger is melting away into something much softer and more melancholy. He also notices that she's without any sort of purse or bag, which is a fact the woman also becomes aware of as she looks down at her hands and grunts, "Fuck!" under her breath.
The traffic now lines up impatiently behind Steve's stalled motorcycle. He looks back at the crowd, trying to wave in apology, before starting to ride again. He tries to pass the woman... thinking that maybe he should just leave her be... but he gets no farther than a yard away from where she now sulks in the first drops of rain before veering off of the street. He parks his motorcycle haphazardly along the curb and yanks his helmet from his head the moment he can.
Keeping his helmet tucked under his arm, Steve kicks out the kickstand to his bike and moves out of the straddle of the metal beast. On long legs he moves slowly down the street to where the woman now stands under the awning of a comic book store. Steve tries his hardest not to seem intimidating as he approaches. He can't even begin to fathom how scary it'd be to be out alone, unprotected, as a woman in this terrible city at night. Who the hell was it that let her walk out of that car all by herself? Alone! In the cold! With nothing but the clothes on her back and the uncomfortable heels on her feet! Steve doesn't know this woman, but he feels like he wants to have a long conversation with the jackass who abandoned her here: for whatever reason it was, it wasn't a reason good enough.
"Excuse me? Miss?" Steve stops a good eight or nine feet away before speaking to the woman. He'd be farther if the noises of the traffic didn't prevent him.
The woman hears him and turns her face closer his way. Without the glass of his turned-down helmet mask preventing him, Steve gets his real first look at her. For a moment he forgets what it is that he's going to say next, or why he's here in the first place. All he sees are those eyes... those ruby red lips... and the fact that the most beautiful sight he's ever seen in the entire world is standing right in front of him.
"What?" the woman snaps.
Steve's drawn out of his stupor. He smiles, meaning to be kind and reassuring, and begins to speak in that famous voice of his. "I saw what happened to you back there with the car. I can't help but worry about you finding a way home. Do you need some cash for a bus ticket? Or a taxi? I can get you a taxi." He pauses to see if she'll respond, but she seems to be thinking about something now as she looks closely at his face. "I have a cell phone, too, if you need to call someone."
As if ignoring all of his statements before, the woman cocks her head to the side and asks, "Do I know you from somewhere?" Her voice has that familiar ring of confusion and foreign recollection that Steve often gets when he goes out on the town in regular people garb.
"No, no. We've never met before." Steve smiles and glances down at his stiff soled boots before peering at the woman again. The rain is still lightly falling but it's not enough to get anyone properly wet. The woman's hair is slightly moist as it hangs down her shoulders and against the bright color of her blouse.
"Are you sure?" she asks. Her voice is not soft like her eyelashes or intense like the color of her eyes. Instead it's a mix of both: unnerving to Steve, to say the very least. "You look extremely familiar..."
"I get that a lot, actually," Steve attempts to deflect the comment. Going back to the matter at hand, he chimes in, "Here—I've got fifty in cash. Do you think that's enough to get you home?"
"That's enough to get me to Jersey," she chuckles dryly. She looks down at the wad of cash Steve's just drawn out of his back pocket and now holds out towards her graciously. "But I can't take your money."
"Please," Steve offers helplessly, "It's no problem at all."
"How do you know I don't have money of my own?" the woman challenges.
"You don't have a bag," Steve replies, "And that outfit doesn't look like it has room for any pockets." He can't help but smile as the woman peers down at her choice of clothes to jog her own memory. The floral skirt is soggy from the water pooling up on the ground near her cold, partially exposed feet. The heeled shoes have cutouts in the toes.
The woman bites down on her bottom lip in deep thought. Looking back at Steve, she asks, "And you have no problem giving out your hard earned money to a stranger?"
"I don't work that hard," Steve replies with a small smile. "Please. Just take it." He offers it up again by leaning the wad closer her way. He watches as her left eyebrow lifts slightly, signifying her doubts of his intentions, and decides to address them aloud. "It's not a trick. I'll walk away and leave you alone. I just wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I drove off without knowing you had a proper way to get home."
Steve thinks he must have said something right, because next the woman smiles. She softly nods and then carefully—as if still unsure—takes the money from Steve's much larger hand. Her nails aren't very long but they're painted nicely in a funky shade of teal.
"Thank you." The woman gives Steve another gracious smile. "I don't need all fifty to get home, though."
"Don't worry about it. I don't need it," Steve says. He takes a few steps back towards his bike with his helmet back in his hands. "Have a good night now."
"Thanks," the woman says back. "You too."
Steve turns around to head back towards his bike with the assumption that he'll never see the woman in the flowery skirt again. He hops onto his bike, straddling the thing, and revs the engine a bit before buckling tight his helmet.
The woman watches as her leather-jacket bound knight in shining armor saddles up upon his mechanical steed and get ready to ride off into the nighttime. He doesn't glance back at her, not even for a smile or a wave, and she assumes that it's him trying not to wig her out in any sort of way. His chivalry is something like she's never seen... is that what a decent man is supposed to be? Hell if she knows. The only ones she seems to meet are the ones that kick her out of their dusty ass Nissans onto the street.
After stuffing the bills in her fist, trying not to look suspicious, the woman looks to the windows of the shop behind her. It takes once for her to see the superhero poster but not notice it. Her eyes dart to the picture a second time without thought. It's the third time around that she really notices the blond haired, blue eyed macho man standing pretty and heroic in the pictures posted up all around the comic shop windows and walls inside. Captain America: the First Avenger... and this lucky woman's nighttime knight.
"Holy shit," she lets out in a single breath. She looks back down the street where the man sits patiently aback a Harley Davidson and waits for traffic to space out enough to dart out. Deep in her gut she has a suspicion as to who that handsome man truly is. She's seen his face a hundred thousand times on TV, and even once in person. And if he really is Captain America, why the hell is she letting him drive away without saying anything?
"Wait!" the woman calls out and goes hurrying closer to the curb. "Hold on!" She prays to god that the mystery man hears her above the roaring traffic and honking horns. As she closes in on the side of the still-parked motorbike she realizes that he must, because he's taking off his helmet again and looking back towards her. Before he can even utter a questioning word she's stupidly introducing herself with an extended hand. "My name's Y/N."
The man's blue eyes, made darker by the nighttime but brighter by the lights of the buildings that twinkle all around, look down upon Y/N's extended right hand with a bit of hesitance. But eventually he leans forward to shake it with his own—having a grip steady and firm but not too overwhelming. "Steve," he says his name.
"I know where I've seen you before," Y/N says as their hands part ways. She doesn't wait for Steve to respond before saying, "I've lived in New York for the past ten years of my life and I see a thousand different faces every day. I know I've seen yours."
"You can't be sure of that," Steve chuckles. "There are a lot of goofy looking blond guys in this city." He can't help but smile softly at the look upon Y/N's face: she's relieved, in a way, and maybe it's because he's given her the money to send her home.
"I don't think so," Y/N says surely. "I don't think I'd forget the face of the man who saved my life."
Steve's smile falters on his face. He looks into Y/N's eyes, sees her sudden seriousness, and feels put on the spot. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Y/N explains, "That you saved my life during the Battle of New York. I was trapped in my flipped car and had one of those nasty alien-things trying to pry inside and get me. You were in the middle of saving the world and spotted me from a dozen yards away and came out of your way to save me. You killed it, pulled me out of the wreck, and carried me out of the street. You helped me onto my feet and then you told me where to go where I'd be safest. You told me to watch my back and hurry up, but that I was going to be okay." Y/N pauses to take a breath. "And then you were running off again before I could even get the chance to say thank you."
The pressure building up between their watchful eyes now is too much for Steve. He glances down at the street where his kickstand still sits out next to his boot that rests on the ground. When he looks back up at Y/N, he says, "That wasn't me." Y/N raises a brow and he hurries to add, "I mean, it was. I'm not denying that it wasn't me out there that day. It's just that... That guy's a different man. He's someone else." Steve shakes his head lightly. He can't possibly explain to her what he means: he's gone through so much in the past few years, changed and shifted away from the Captain America glory, to someone entirely new. "He's the Captain: the hero."
"Then who are you?" Y/N holds her head slightly to one side.
Steve shrugs. When his shoulders fall back down he looks defeated: as if the weight of the world is pressing down upon on those shoulders that house the head of golden hair and the smile that America has adopted as their signature.
"I don't know."
"Well," Y/N says, "I'm not so sure you're very different at all. You've saved me twice now, actually, and this time you weren't even wearing the suit."
Steve gingerly smiles at her with not much else to say besides, "I was just trying to do the right thing."
"You make it sound easy," Y/N laughs. "Most of the people I know wouldn't even know what the right thing to do was if it hit them in the face."
"Like your friend in the Nissan?" Steve asks.
Y/N groans in annoyance. "Yes: that asshole, too. He told me he'd kick me to the curb if I ever made him mad, I just didn't imagine he'd literally be kicking me to the curb. Two dates in, too."
"I'm sorry about that," Steve says with more sincerity in his voice than Y/N can even imagine possible.
"It's okay," she says. She takes a deep breath and smiles at the man who's saved her twice now. "Thanks, Steve." She pauses, seeing the smile slowly sprout on his pretty face. "Thank you," Y/N reiterates with more meaning this time. "Thank you for everything."
Steve nods as his response, unsure of what else to say, before watching Y/N turn and walk away. She teeters off down the street in the direction she was headed before when she'd been passenger in the Nissan. After a few steps she stops to stoop down and kick off her terribly uncomfortable shoes. Steve watches in pity as she picks up the pair, slinging them over her shoulder, and makes her way towards the bus stop.
Steve knows it's wrong, but he doesn't want her to leave. He knows if she leaves now he'll never see her again, and there's something quite mysteriously magical about this woman and her velvety voice that makes him want to break all of his rules and beg her to stay a moment longer. He knows it's something that he would've never done before: call after her and make a move, but he's different now. His life's different now.
And dammit, he deserves to do what he wants, too.
"Y/N?"
The woman turns just as she's passing a smoothie shop on the corner. "Yeah?" she calls back. The loudness of her voice makes Steve chuckle lightly.
"Do you want to go grab something to eat?"
Y/N's smile is more genuine and pretty than any Steve's ever seen. "I am a bit hungry."
Steve smiles, too. "You like pizza?"
"I love pizza," Y/N says.
He waves her back towards him with a hand. "Come on then. I know just the place."
Y/N comes around to the side of the metal beast and waits hesitantly to be told what to do. He helps her onto the back of the motorbike where she sits behind him with her knees tucked on either side of his waist. She's grateful for the fact that this look-alike skirt is actually a real flowy pair of pants, or she'd be showing the world her panties now as her legs spread apart to fit the width of Steve's sturdy hips.
Steve takes off his helmet and passes it to Y/N. He helps her buckle it in place. Still holding onto the sides of the helmet, he asks, "Have you ever ridden before?"
"No," Y/N answers truthfully.
Steve bites down on his cheek to stop himself from giggling at the adorably nervous-excited look in Y/N's eyes. "It'll be fun, I promise. Just hold on to me, okay?" Y/N nods and he takes this as his cue to start up the engine again. He turns around, grabbing both handles, and chuckles as he feels Y/N's unsure hands softly press into his waist. He takes the initiative to reach down and grab both of her hands—wrapping her arms tightly around his body and pulling her chest flush to his back. "Don't be scared, Y/N. It's better that you hold on tighter."
"Oh, okay," her voice comes out as muffled through the helmet. Steve helps this by pulling up the glass visor so that she can properly speak and see. "That's better," she laughs.
The engine purrs to life and Y/N finds herself subconsciously gripping Steve harder. He doesn't seem to mind so she hugs tighter against his back—feeling the leather against her skin in places her thin cardigan doesn't cover—and smells the scent of his shampoo.
Steve pulls the motorcycle away from the curb and into the steady rush of traffic. He weaves through lanes until he's in the right one to take a turn down a one-way street a few blocks down the way. Y/N wonders at the blurred sight of the city around her as they seem to fly down the road. A small divot, not even large enough to be a pothole, appears and bumps the ride. A startled Y/N tightens her grip around Steve's waist—hands scrambling to clutch onto the fabric of his jacket to keep him close. Steve feels a small smile working onto his face as he feels Y/N's arms around him, holding tight, and tries not to become too distracted in his sudden happiness to properly drive. Meanwhile, Y/N's smile is the size of the moon as she drowns in the fact that she's riding the sexiest motorcycle behind the sexiest man she's ever seen: the same one she tagged as her hero and savior all those years ago. Nothing could really get any better than this, is one thing they both subconsciously agree.
Steve takes another sharp turn down a side-street and the motorcycle disappears from view. All that can be heard of them is the distant growing purr of the engine. The unknowing, soon-to-be-sweethearts speed off into distance: the leather armored knight held tight by the woman that will someday in the future be his queen.